Déjà vécu
by Flying Faraway
Summary: What sort of devilry is this? It reminds of a repetitive game. She has always acted like a ne'erdowell woman. Lonesome and liberal, Matsumoto is caged in the social frame. For years she has been wasting herself in the routine jumble of days. But suddenly
1. Prologue

**Summary: **This story is thought to be an experiment. The whole point is that the plot is planned to be realistic yet preternatural due to Bleach flashbacks. Déjà vécu (from French "lived before") is the phenomenon of non-existent memories. But then why does Ranku (I have cut "gi" from the original name) Matsumoto remember her odd second life or, perhaps, it should be called the previous life? What sort of devilry is this? It reminds of a repetitive game. She has always acted like a ne'er-do-well woman. Lonesome and liberal, Matsumoto is caged in the social frame. For years she has been wasting herself in the routine jumble of days. But suddenly everything is embroiled in an inconceivable tangle when she meets a stranger with the smile of a buffoon…

**Disclaimer:** Actually, the author isn't inclined to plagiarism so I can't proclaim myself the owner of the whole idea. In fact, the overwhelming majority of characters belong to Bleach pantheon.

**Déjà vécu**

We forget because we don't need to remember our future.

The past died off long ago…should we visit the graveyard?

_**Prologue**_

A woman in her late twenties was crawling on all fours, panting and mumbling round oaths at the same time. She was rummaging haphazard under a wooden bedstead with one hand while trying feverishly to remove a stubborn downy red lock of hair from her forehead with the help of the second one. The fight on two fronts soon turned out to be fruitless. The woman snorted loudly when the annoying strand landed yet again between her eyes. She straightened herself up and threw the messy chevelure (1) over the shoulders with one swift motion of the neck. Her Aurora (2) streamed in brazen cascades down her back and reached up to the waistline. She squatted down and embraced the head with the hands locking her fingers over the crown (3). Not only did Ranku Matsumoto attempt at exchanging eloquent remarks with the missing documentation but also threatened and urged the intractable papers to turn up at once or else…otherwise she would certainly track the papers down herself and then she would have them copied and sliced into tiny pieces…yes, she would pour petrol over those miserable sheets, burn the root of all evil and dance furioso (4) around the fire…

Ranku Matsumoto never had special guidelines. There were times when she desperately endeavored to observe the traditional instructions but it proved to be a failure. After all, she milled the wind (5). Unfortunately, Ranku had to bear with the fact that most likely she wouldn't fit in the role of virtuous wife and mother. She never doubted her charms and could boast of the swarm of worshippers. Those susceptible to woman's amenities gathered around her persona as though they were flies and she were a dainty lump of sugar. Yet the fate seemed to keep the men off her like a watchman of chastity. In her relationships there was neither commencement nor ending, only void in the midst.

Regarding climbing the ladder (6), at first Matsumoto pressed towards a decent position. As one Roman philosopher once remarked: we value nothing above the prosperity while we crave for it and nothing below when the last is obtained. And, certainly, Ranku Matsumoto didn't really mind this kind of sinful cult. Matsumoto couldn't be accused of commercialism, yet she possessed a spacious apartment to Tokyo measure and was quite fond of it. In her chase of promotion she realized that it was too wearisome for her sluggish personality. Matsumoto had moderated her appetites because she never pretended to the rank of an indefatigable workaholic even in her worst nightmares. It was perfectly convenient for Matsumoto to remain the first assistant in the 10nth bureau of innovations. Sometimes even her average position reminded Ranku about bothersome responsibilities. She could swear that every yen cost the very drop of her own blood. The documents, that were nowhere to be seen, were the evidence of that trial.

- Damn it, I guess I'll have to make up a cogent reason for the lack of the documentation. Should I order myself a coffin or earplugs? Hataraki man (7) will bite my poor head off and won't even choke…Where did I put those reports?

Matsumoto scanned the room once more and wasn't really surprised to spot the above-mentioned papers lying peacefully under one of the flowerpots.

- Oh gods must have regarded pitiful me with favour. Thank…s…I just knew it! Why? What have I done to incur anger!? The boss won't compliment for those round marks and dappled numbers…Mmm…think…I am a first-rate malingerer(8)…No, he would make me present that report even I were lying on my deathbed. You're right, Bilberry (9), come what may…

Disheveled Matsumoto cast a look at the clock, hastily stuffed the papers in her bag and rushed outside. Bilberry, her favorite cat, meowed a little bit too late and lounged self-complacently on the shapeless pile of bed-shits.

Lexical decoder:

(1) chevelure (French) - shock (of hair), mop of hair

(2) Aurora – a type of hairstyle, thick strands of hair are cut in layers

(3) crown – the top (crest) of head

(4) furioso - furious

(5) mill the wind – an idiom, means to waste one's efforts

(6) climb the ladder - to make oneself a career

(7) Hataraki man (Japanese) – hard-working man, in other words, workaholic

(8) malingerer – a person who feigns illness

(9) bilberry (sin whortleberry ) – a sort of berry, almost black in color, grows on small bushes, mostly on foothills within the zone of the temperate climate

Haiku

Once remembered  
Then forgotten .  
The chrysanthemums on black silk

The bird returns.  
A man forgets  
So as to live once more

Blind twilight,  
I probe the way  
Though I traveled it before

A lonely blue bird  
Is silent in the leafage,  
But I hear its mute prayer

That stray cat  
On the doorstep,  
Leave it where it lies

Close them  
The holes in your eyes,  
They will see it

Lost memories  
Shouldn't be found.  
Choking ashes

Scattered thoughts  
Burn them.  
Think of warm sake

The wind chime calls  
For loneliness.  
The drumming of raindrops


	2. Chapter 1

**Warning: **To those, who dare to read my strange creation I have no intention of writing a story for everyone. I am afraid that my readers should have so-called "teeth" so as to chew my forethoughts or else you wouldn't be able to swallow it, particularly, to digest. I apologize for my bare frankness. Besides that I am grateful for your attention and appreciate your feed-back, because every opinion is the subjective reflection of my story. More mirrors make the author notice more drawbacks. I am speaking of constructive criticism, of course. Carping will crush against the wall of indifference. I also advise you to pay attention to details, marked and latent symbols, tropes etc. Otherwise the reader won't catch the "red thread" and won't be able to collect the pieces into one pattern.

Sincerely, but not yours, Nobody's

**Chapter 1**

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* * *

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**_Black-letter days and flying chrysanthemums_**

* * *

_According to the Universal law of baseness when a man is walking down the street, from above falls either a brick or a pigeon gift … but Heavens may drop unexpected things._

_There are two types of shortish men: the choppers and those who reach heights._

* * *

A semi-secluded Tokyo side-street meandered along the vivid fence, knocked together out of the thickset houses for the little inhabitants. Inside of this narrow world November wind had fallen into the habit of lingering over passer's-by coats. The belated autumn passed its cold, numb hand over human faces and architectonic façades, deliberately bothering wind chimes. The hiss of the flaw was entailed by their mocking chants as though they were lamenting a dead man.

The unbleached linen of the sky was suspended above the fulvous roofs. The rows of clouds chased one another along the dull canvas, trying to reach the finish line of the invisible horizon first. A hooligan gust of wind burst into the attic gap, the "pilferer" snatched a heap of paper leaves from the window-sill and scattered the sheets on the crannied concrete. Only one piece caught on the ledge and didn't join its brethrens.

Once again Ranku Matsumoto was competing with the unstoppable course of time and, as usual, she was losing the race. If she were overdue Ranku would always turn to this solitary street. Lately she had discovered the route and used it as the salutary short-cut. The young woman was walking with vigorous strides, desperately gripping her writhed bag in her armpit. The autumn wind licked Ranku's hair with its dank tongue.

When Matsumoto escaped from the apartment the clock showed 17 minutes past 11. What a hopeless case! The lack of punctuality was her scourge and yet Matsumoto usually managed to arrive opportunely.

No matter how violent was her step, Matsumoto's thoughts were far ahead of her feet. Her conscience was urging her on as if it were a rider who berated and lashed his sluggish mare.

Suddenly the wind rushed in her face and instantly something landed flat on her left shoulder. Ranku heard the Homeric laughter of the chimes: "Damn it. I swear I'll deplume that flying bomber". But when she cast a sidelong look at the "polluted" spot, fortunately, it turned out to be a yellowed piece of paper. Matsumoto crossly tore the flyer off her black coat and was about to throw it away when she noticed the delicate outline of kiku (1). The radial rows of pale petals were assembled in the sumptuous inflorescence. Its faded contour revealed the ephemeral essence of the natural marvel. Ranku could never commit the crime against the white chrysanthemum, the sacred flower (2) of her heart. Below the kiku some lyrical verses were embodied in the refined calligraphy. She absently read the three lines.

_Once remembered_

_Then forgotten_

_The chrysanthemums on black silk_

The rising tide of odd familiarity spread within her breast, rushed up and frothed in her temples. For a moment Ranku felt quasi (3) she had recurred herself, having recited the hokku (4) repeatedly. But in a flash that delusion of reiteration drained off. It didn't disperse into parental nothingness but vanished like ripples in the troubled water. Matsumoto rubbed her forehead with her palm, dispelling the somber vestige.

- That cursed work will either change me into a lunatic or bring me to the grave.

What an encouraging prospect!

Incidentally, Matsumoto was the kind of woman who could quickly recover. So she pulled herself together, thrust the ill-fated paper into the pocket and resumed marching.

- I wish I had wings or, at least, a pair if seven-league boots instead of high heels.

… … … … … … …

On a topographic map Tokyo tube (5) looks like a bundle of inconceivable cobwebs that were interlaced at random by two generations of Japanese transportation engineers. Without fail, the "sons" of metro-construction took great pains in hope of rationalizing the labyrinth of wormholes but, in the end, they muddled up the fathers' brainchild once and for all. The conglomeration of underground, overland and elevated "tracts" resembles fishily the circulatory system. There is the heart, the cramped accumulation encircled by the "great snake", and a dozen of main vessels (Chuo, Tokaido, Masashino, Joban lines and so on and so forth) which ramify into smaller arteries, then numerous capillaries.

It's as easy as a pie to go astray or, better to say, to find yourself in the unexpected point of destination.

Ranku had to habituate to the daily ordeal. She called it inwardly the meat mixer and sometimes the foul place. Only after being smashed, pressed, downtrodden, squeezed and hugged did the martyr, literally, crawl out to the surface. Formerly, Matsumoto crammed the requisite road and even if she were sleep-walking she would accurately board the right train.

Ranku happily admitted with a peaceful heart that she had happily skipped the peak hour: the majority of conscientious citizens had already been working for the public good. Otherwise she would have been the victim of "morning ramming".

Through the intercom a repugnant imitation of a woman's voice announced about the Toei Shinjuku train arrival and Matsumoto darted at breakneck speed towards the platform. She managed to rush into the car just in time but not perfectly for the "jaws" shut down and trapped the lap of her paletot (6).

- Those hungry doors. It's my personal fool day.

She sighed and prepared herself to bear her awkward position for regular twenty minutes. The irony of it all! A meter farther glaringly shined a vacant seat.

… … … … … … …

GISC or General Innovation Stock Company was the first-rate corporative giant in the whole country. The commercial "whale" fed on human creativity and was indulged in the idea traffic. It bought and sold patents, developed modernization projects and introduced experimental models. Always on the wave of progress, it swallowed the enormous amount of brainpower in order to reign over the common minds. The motto of GISC was engraved on the central arc in front of the formidable many-storied bastion, the reminiscent of an ant hill carved out of the mountain of plastic and metal: " Only those, who possess information, are the true Gods ".

Regarding the administrative aspect the GISC Empire was divided into thirteen departments. Each of sections governed its respective field and occupied several floors, apart from medical and scientific-research departments which reserved detached blocks for their purpose.

The infamous 10th bureau was responsible for the external market. Its main function was to impart luster to the finished project, "pack" it in the promotional envelope and palm off on a favorable client.

Since last month there was a tremendous agiotage caused by the unusual affair which was anticipated by both sides: GISC and a promising latter-day organization.

The bureau of export was in charge of the amalgamation and was the one to establish the cohesion. The firm hadn't yet given its consent and made it clear that it was still looking forward to the forcible argument. In one word, its leaders implied their mercenary desire.

The chief office on the 34th floor resembled the raging infernal cauldron. When Matsumoto burst into the bureau, all of the employees, save the 1st assistant, were absorbed in the process, all the small "screws" were at their fixed place - the commercial mechanism had already been started and achieved its pace of work.

That was the result of the superintendent's effort. Hitsugaya-san was a fair and strict "regent" with the "height" problem. He had risen very rapidly and at the edge of twenty four was sitting in the director's armchair and contrived to command his subordinates' respect. He was praised for his efficiency and remarkable wit. The young man suffered from one exterior shortcoming: he had to crane his neck in order to examine the face of a subordinate who stood at attention.

No one had ever dared to gratify him since the incident with the clerk who wanted to please the short man and bowed too low. The employee didn't expect to be icily reprimanded at the end of his report.

- Your report is scanty and inaccurate. Would you be so kind and do it anew. By the way, fawners won't be tolerated from now on.

After that event Hitsugaya-san won two expressive aliases. Those, who saw a severe tyrant in him, secretly called their fearful superior "Frostbite" while the others, who paid him high tribute, named their exigent head "Hataraki man".

Matsumoto tried to seize the opportunity of the surrounding ado and creep imperceptibly in her private office but was caught red-handed by the content soprano of a secretary:

- Matsumoto-san, Hitsugaya-san has asked me to invite you in his office as soon as you deign to appear. The secretary's oculars flashed triumphantly.

- Shit…I mean that was my first intention. I'll be there in a minute.

- Hitsugaya-san suggested that the documentation should be laid on his table immediately.

- Tell him I'm on my way, - she babbled in a cloying tone and then mumbled under her breath – to the blazing inferno. She'll get it hot.

Hataraki man was literally snowed under with work. His face portrayed concentration and the cheek-bones tensed when he heard the modest tap on the door.

-Come in. Since when are you so shy, Matsumuto? You are late once again. If I wouldn't pardon your indiscipline, fines would eat away your salary. I'm tired of my first assistant's negligence. No complaint, Matsumoto? Silent, aren't we?

- I am waiting for the end of the tirade.

- Touché (7). You have a glib tongue and what's about your assignment?

- Accomplished but…

- Show it…

Ranku nervously drew out the crumpled batch of documents and gingerly extended it to her boss. At first he frowned but then his both brows furiously arched in bewilderment:

- Are these dirt pits? Have you soaked the papers in a puddle, Matsumoto? These are not accepted. Now I want you to desert my office and retype every word and number. And I mean it promptly. Get out.

Matsumoto didn't utter even a sound and evanesced with lightning speed. She shut the door softly and rounded the corner to get out of harm's way. There's no need to provoke his wrath further. Hitsugaya would be ranting and raving if she didn't reform the report in time. Her job was hanging by the elastic thread of his patience.

She found herself inside of the secure abode of her office. Ranku threw the papers on the table and fell onto her customary couch, the privilege of the first assistant. She shook her head and stood up. Matsumoto approached the glass square and cracked the window: the moist air was thoroughly imbued with the odor of streets but Ranku felt the tart autumn fragrance. It smelled of chrysanthemums.

Lexical decoder:

(1) Kiku (Japanese) – chrysanthemum

(2) Chrysanthemum is the sacred flower of Japan and symbolizes spiritual generosity and immortality.

(3) quasi – as though

(4) hokku – a poem consisting of three lines( each has a certain number of syllables) originated from Japan. The laconic hokku is the tune born to charm. Its hidden reason is to remain obscure and incomprehensible.

(5) tube – subway

(6) paletot (French) – overcoat

(7) touché (French) – touch


	3. Drunken Interlude

**Author's note: **_I've thought that an internodal sketch would come in handy. Matsumoto got sozzled and confides her sorrow to Bilberry (her pet, it's Haineko's substitute). She talks nonsense. But is it just the gibberish of a tipsy woman or the post-reincarnation syndrome?_

_Chapter 1 was a symbolical preamble. There are a lot of descriptions so that the reader could familiarize with the story picture. Unfortunately, I've noticed that many readers were scared away by the obscure prologue and author's ornate language. I'm not blaming them because I do have a bad habit of "confusing writing". The main heroine is cribbed from Rangiku Matsumoto, in fact, it is her reincarnation. The main reason I've chosen her for my story because there's no need for deep alternation to "restore" Rangiku to mortal life as Ranku Matsumoto. By the way, I find anime Bleach curious because of its large gallery of destinies and character types. I've finished my boring lyrical digression._

_I don't want to precipitate the most thrilling events. Next chapter is planned to be more event-trigger. You'll catch a glimpse of a certain silver haired individual. GINGINGINGINGINGIN. That rings a bell. _

_**P.S: I thirst for your reviews. They stimulate my creativity. Pour some rain on my poor head! Warm or cold, I don't mind at all. As I said before I'm not writing for everyone to understand my conception. But at the same time you are free to demand explanations.**_

_**Thank you for your attention!**_

* * *

**Drunken interlude**

_The hour of shadows and loneliness is the blessed hour to savour sake._

* * *

Bilberry was reveling in his usual evening slumber when her keen ears caught the distinct sound of rustling behind the front door. Being a valetudinarian, at first she thought that it could be an unbidden guest. That intruder was about to violate the forbidden limit of her habitation and shatter her peace and quite. Bilberry's back and paws strained and pointed ears perked up but then suddenly her graceful body calmed down. The cat had recognized her mistress in the arrival.

Ranku was rummaging in the disordered insides of her satchel. Matsumoto could swear that the keys were buried somewhere in its interior. At last she succeeded in fishing them out. The grey door cracked and Ranku crept in. It was pitch-dark. Only a pair of fluorescent dots gleamed above the bed. Matsumoto switched the lamp on the bedside-table. Bilberry narrowed her two live coals and uttered a malcontent meow. Matsumoto threw her load on the floor but the paper-bag was gingerly laid down.

Admiring Bilberry's impressive pose, she grumbled jealously at the sluggish pet:

- What an insolent cat! You should be greeting your bread-winner and benefactress. Shame on you. As they say, the pet is the exact replica of its owner.

Watching her thankless favorite stretch all her limbs in that unique idle manner, Ranku jokingly imitated a threatening gesture and sighed.

Matsumoto straightened her shoulders and ridded herself of the tight jacket. Wearing that austere garment made her feel constrained like a bird with tied up wings.

She grabbed the aforesaid parcel and stripped it off paper. It revealed a paunchy bottle with the thin neck. Matsumoto clasped it to her sumptuous bosom, like a mother would cuddle her child, and headed for the kitchen. There she took out of the wooden closet her personal relic: a patterned tokkuri(1) and a choko(2). Rancu put the china and the bottle on the salver and carried it back to her bedroom. She kneeled down on the fleecy carpet and arranged the "board" in front of her. As soon as Matsumoto uncorked the bottle, Bilberry abandoned her cozy "nest" and joined the mistress on the floor. The cat sneaked up to the bottle and sniffed it. Bilberry wrinkled her brown nose in pure indignation and cast a sidelong look, full of reproach. Matsumoto pretended that she hadn't noticed her pet's resentment and proceeded to fill the choko with the flavored beverage. Being ignored, Bilberry laid her paw on Ranku's sleeve and murmured critically.

- Yes, I'm going to drink few choko of sake. I have the right to spend my evening as I wish. It's Friday and I desperately need to relax. And all kinds of cats won't hinder me from my solitary holiday. And by the way, my little canting hypocrite, who lapped up all the valerian and made a mess last week?

That was an insult Bilberry couldn't bear so she leaped on a nearby chair and turned her back resentfully on Ranku. Matsumoto exulted in her victory and drained the tiny porcelain cup.

The sake was pungent and rather ardent. She always purchased that sort because of its refined aroma and narcotic effect. It had its substantial advantage: when she drank it, all the burden of her thoughts sank temporally into oblivion. The next morning was never clouded because of an insufferable hangover and partial amnesia.

Ranku scooped out the intoxicating ambrosia vigorously. Her throat damped and the first tokkuri ran dry. As it should be, Matsumoto was brought up to the mark of a blank talker and became fairly garrulous. She started the theatre of a drunken actress who amused the audience in the sole person of Bilberry:

- Oh! Come on, touchy cat. There're no designs on that wall. Turn around and I'll sing a wistful ballade about my foolish life.

Bilberry grumbled disapprovingly at her frivolous mistress but paid heed to Ranku nevertheless. Matsumoto smiled encouragingly and let the tune sail on the waves of her husky contralto(3):

I wish I were a white kiku in the golden garden of your heart

But I'm a barren flower and I grow on the dusty wayside.

A casual passer-by pauses to admire my pale colors but then leaves,

He walks away. He won't pluck the stem of the faded flower

The sun warms my petals but its shining face is too high to reach

It hides behind the cloudy curtains and abandons me at night

The flower is lonely living on its own.

It has no children but its passing pride...

Matsumoto suddenly couldn't sustain the note and choked. She cleared her dry throat and faintly touched her burning lips

- I'd better refuel the tokkuri.

She filled the jug with sake and knocked back a couple of choko without a break.

Ranku hiccupped and an idea stuck her.

- Eak…Bilberry, I'll show you that sheet of paper with the chrysanthemum. Wait a second…It should be…where…think…my black coat… in one of the pockets!

She leapt to her feet and leaned like the Pisan tower but managed to hold her vertical position. Her feet seemed to be made of clay. She staggered out to the corridor. Ranku stumbled over her boots twice and cursed them but at last she groped for her overcoat. Almost hanged by the paletot, the woman burrowed the hand in one pocket, then another. But all she found was an overdue bill and a coin.

- Well. That's strange. It seems the paper fell out. I won't search for the lost in the dark.

… … … … … … …

As Ranku finished off the third portion, all her anxiety disappeared together with the humdrum hardships. She felt feather-light, having shed the stifling shell, which gripped her mind in a vice, just like the jacket tortured her body. Matsumoto oiled her soul with sake so as to slip out of the "sheath" for a moment but imprisoned for term of life.

At the following stage she would be wrapped in a warm cotton-wool cocoon but nothing covered Ranku. She shivered from a piercing chill and a milky fog invaded the room. The wreaths of mist crept up to her bare feet and all of a sudden Ranku got bogged down in it. Was she delirious? After a minute she couldn't discern the verge of reality. The dream had seized the perception and Ranku thought that she belonged to that hazy world.

The dense mist caressed her skin and she stood still. Ranku was deaf and blind in the midst of shaded clouds. She wasn't scared but perplexed. Her eyes saw a gloaming flash.

A silver-winged butterfly was fluttering in the mist. When it flew past Ranku, she tried to catch the butterfly. But the flier escaped the cage of her palms. The stubborn woman ran after it but couldn't overtake. The butterfly teasingly approached her and then soared up. Ranku wanted to chase the flyer further but stopped abruptly in a momentary hesitation. She was standing on the edge of a bottomless precipice. The butterfly poised in mid air for a moment and then floated daringly across the chasm. Wingless Ranku couldn't follow it…

When Matsumoto regained consciousness, she found herself on the windowsill. Beneath, there was an abyss 27 stories deep and she fell…backwards in the blackness. Ranku collapsed on the wooden floor of her bedroom.

In the background the voice mail snapped in action:

Matsumoto is currently absent or too lazy to answer the phone. If it is a pressing matter you can leave news to my replacement after the squeaky signal:

The tired but intimidating voice of her boss croaked:

- Matsumoto, I've decided to warn my careless assistant personally. Tomorrow we are having negotiations with the plenipotentiaries of our main prey. Your presence is obligatory. And don't you dare to be late or I'll make sure to shelve you.

By the way your assumptions proved to be reasonable. They're afraid that they will get nothing after we swallow them. I'll have to reform the conditions of the guarantee. To hell with those scoundrels!

I repeat that's the first and the last time I remind you about the meeting. Don't tempt my kindness.

End of the message.

**Lexical decoder**

(1) tokkuri - small Japanese jug, used for sake ceremony

(2) choko – a small ceramic cup for sake

(3) contralto – a low feminine voice


	4. Five butterflies

**Author's note: **I'm still waiting for reviews. I'm a very patient person but don't make my patience desperate. Reviews are a rare occasion! Without the reader's feed-back the author blunders about!!! I have many other story projects but I don't know if I should even try to realize those.

I've decided to delay the second chapter for the time being. I am going to post the frame-poem in prose instead of it. The verses are fundamental for the story. It dawned upon me when I was having a bath. The water favours the birth of ideas:))

* * *

Do not chaise the silver-winged butterfly. It leads to a fall. 

** The silver butterflies are delusions**

Avoid the black butterfly, flitting far or near. It touches human heads and those are gone. Submit, if it lands on you.

**The black butterfly is death**

If the white butterfly is hovering above your head, trap it in your mind and preserve it.

**The white butterflies are memories**

Don't you dare to take the life of the red butterfly. Let it pollinate as many as possible flowers.

**The red butterfly is love**

If you see a flight of the golden butterflies, do not try to own them all. Choose only one and follow it.

**The golden butterflies are dreams**.


End file.
